Death's Parentheses
by Thedirtytrenchcoat
Summary: "Falling in love with the guy who was about to kill you. How perfectly Winchester." Dean falls into a choice: to wrong it all and forget the rules, or to step up and lose everything. Unfortunately, the strings are tied around him and he doesn't know what game he's playing, just that losing could mean more than he's willing to face.


**A/N**: This is my first official attempt at a chapter story, so I just want to apologize for the inevitable lack of updates. I plan on finishing this, it just might take me a while. As this is my first story, any reviews or tips or pointers are much appreciated! This story is dedicated to **Cheyenne**, as I was supposed to write her this eons ago.

This takes place somewhere roughly after 7x21 and deviates from there. Pretty much Destiel right off the bat, other pairings may come up later.

**Warnings:** Strong Language

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any dangly or otherwise non-dangly bits of Supernatural, that all belongs to Kripke.

* * *

_Prologue_

It's with a flutter that it all clicks into place. Ironic really, considering the situation. All it takes is a backward glance, and suddenly, he gets it; he knows with a certainty that's both filling and oddly bereft of any true thought process. He needs him, desperately. Achingly. Needs him to be close by, to hear his voice, to be with him; it's terrifying. There aren't many people in Dean's life that are allowed the opportunity to know his real name, let alone the level of trust those blue eyes evoke in him. No, not just trust- though that alone would be enough to raise a few eyebrows. He feels things, with him. Shit, Dean's not good at putting words together at the best of times- he doesn't know how to explain what the crook of that smile or the rumble of that voice, what his very existence in Dean's pathetic excuse of a life does to Dean. He wants to blame it on the adrenaline, but he knows it wouldn't be true. Dean gets all of that shit, now. The girly, mushy stuff; heart racing, butterfly filled, blushing, puke inducing crap abounds. And it's all for that complete idiot. Dean could go on denying it forever, he would have too- but the brokenness in his face was impossible to hide from. He was in love with an angel. A goddamned (or blessed, in this case, Dean supposed) angel of the Big One upstairs.

He'd known all along, of course- denial tended to force these things behind a curtain, but he still knew they were there- but the sudden reveal was like striking a match on a box of fireworks. It zinged through his fingertips and skittered across his brain, exploding in a mass of twinkling stars in his chest. Love... A smile lit across his face breaking into a full on grin. Sammy was safe, somewhere- he knew it wouldn't be for long, but right now he was locked away. Bobby was at peace, probably drinking and grumbling on about 'those ijits' in some big shot white plush couch up in heaven. And Dean was in love with his best friend. The one who'd raised him from perdition, who had been there time and time again without so much as a thank you or a reprieve from all his heavenly duties; the least Dean could do for the guy was to die with a last comfort, whether or not said angel would even care was beyond him. He wanted Cas to know, if not that he was loved then at least that Dean forgave him. For everything, he deserved that much. So, Dean had been through a lot of shit in his lifetime, but he thanked God for the last bit of happiness he'd been given.

Falling in love with the guy who was about to kill you. How perfectly Winchester.

* * *

It began on a Friday, which really should have been his first clue something was wrong. Everything bad in Dean's life happened on a Friday at some point or another; when he was in high school, it was on a Friday that he got called out on his macho cover for the first time, something that shattered his confidence when he thought too hard on it on the best of days. Sam left for university on a Friday. His mom and dad died on Friday-whether or not this was actually the truth was moot, Friday's represented an ending, the start of something else. To most people it was a change to something better, but Dean wasn't most people and if there was one thing he was afraid of it was change. Well, and flying.

So he really should have been suspicious when everything changed on a Friday. Maybe a little more prepared, a little less trusting. He should have done something, anything. Because Dean didn't want this future, this path. He would rip it apart seam by tethered seam, dig his blunt fingers into the gathered corners and_ pull,_ he'd be willing to change it all. He couldn't handle the vacant stares, the glossy sparkle of the shark's smile. He couldn't take the constricting band around his lungs, the heat in his chest; it was his fault his fault _his fault._

He couldn't manage without Sam, and _him._ The dorky, pain in the ass angel he'd come to call his best friend- the one who lost it all just for a chance, for Dean. There was a melting ache in Dean that was driving him crazy, like chords snapping away inside his ribs and he _couldn't deal_ (he'd experienced the literal version during his time in Hell to know that this was honestly _worse_), not without breaking himself apart and casting the parts away into the wind. It was too much to ask.

And so, Dean had to ask it. Or...

Maybe he didn't.

"I won't."

There was a sound like a cacophony of keyboard keys colliding, and the threads separated out for one split of a second.

"You... won't?" It was sinking, into endless quicksand with no hope of escape, into depths of roiling blue waves, into darkness entrenching and confining. He barred his teeth at it and climbed.

"No."

Pulling through was alarmingly painful, hooks of heat ripped across his arms and pooled around his ankles clawing and biting at the skin there. And still.

"You can shove it up your ass."

This time, this time he'd make Friday. Build it up from the ground up, and kick it down because he wanted it. He'd bring on the change, damn them all. It tore into him, deep into the meat of his arms and calves and spreading outward with little slicing feet, inch by inch- it was excruciating, but couldn't touch the burning crescendo in his chest. Couldn't work its way through the fires there, had to turn tail or be lost in the flare. And that's how he pulled through.

Except, there was laughter around him. Or what passed for laughter in its screeching and clawing. _Why was there laughter..._

"Determined little fly, aren't you? But you're all cozied up in our nice, big web. Struggle all you want, fly, we've no need for your survival."

_He's lying, please, he's lying_

The burning raged on and Dean Winchester had nothing more to lose .


End file.
